


A Bubble of Our Own

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The line between Dreaming and Awake is as thin as you make it, until you can deny it no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bubble of Our Own

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Untitled](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/4486) by Nastytrashs. 



What happens when the dream becomes real?

 

You remember so well the easy days. Back then, it was as simple as Rose bonking you with a ball of knitting yarn. In one world, you would fall asleep, possibly with your face mashed against the keyboard. And in the other, you'd wake up.

 

The first time, you came to in a world of darkness, and found that you could only call it home. It resembled, in many ways, the same home to which you’d grown accustomed ages ago. Even that shitty puppet of Bro’s was there, garbed in some kind of cruddy moon-pajamas. Who would even wear those...

 

Oh.

 

(You had looked down.)

 

There was, of course, one key difference between then and now. When you looked to the window in reality, you might see the rest of Houston, and maybe a crow or two if you were really, really lucky. But in this world, when you looked there, you saw a young girl with excessive make-up and a small, superior smirk, waving your way.

 

You didn’t even need the headband to know that this was Rose Lalonde, nor did you need any further input to decide that, whatever else this place was, it was brilliant.

 

Neither of you spoke and neither of you needed to. You didn’t say anything, and she correctly took it as an invitation to simply come in. Within moments, she’d leapt through and was standing before you.

 

Question time. What the hell do you say to your semi-antagonistic good friend, who you’ve been longing - okay, not longing, uncool. Who you’ve been hoping, yeah, that works, to see for quite a while? And what do you do? You’re socially awkward enough as it is; interacting with other kids your age has never been a concern for you, nor has it for her.

 

You had this odd urge to reach out and wrap your fingers around her, greeting her like somebody you care deeply about. But you ignored it. Hugs were a no. Not even with girls. Especially not with girls. And certainly not with Rose Lalonde.

 

But you wanted to do something to just acknowledge the moment. Something not lame, but something just subtle enough that Rose, clever Rose, would catch it and know you were - if nothing else - glad to see her.

 

After an oppressively silent moment, you find yourself turning around and heading towards something you know all too well. Hopefully she won’t run off or something stupid like that while your back is turned. 

 

You hook up some tunes.

 

Before you know it you’ve got a sweet jam going. When you finally dare to turn around again, Rose is still smirking at you, but there’s an air of pure delight in it this time that almost makes you smile back. She has her toes set a’tapping to the beat, clearly recognising the familiar strum of a Strider (copyright, tm, whatever the fuck else) style beat, and the implied quality that comes with one.

 

You don’t dance. You so don’t dance. Neither does she. But a beat this sick, and a friend to dance with? An obsidian tower to yourself in the dark corridors of a shadowed moon? Fuck, you’ve just got to. The volume’s high and the air’s charged. 

 

In just a single step you’re at her side grabbing her wrist, and you have the sickest moves. You lead her into, of all things, a crazy, 13-year-old, horrible version of a swing dance, twirling her left and right and back again. At first she resists, but when she catches the measure of what you’re doing, she steps right in with the meter and waltzes around with a sort of grace that you expect only comes of being insufferably flighty down to the bone.

 

In the corner of your eye you kinda think that damn puppet is dancing along too, but nah. That’s ridiculous.

 

Wisely, you chose not just to put on one song, but an entire playlist of them. You feel like the two of you have boundless energy here, hardly breaking a sweat no matter what insanely stupid moves the two of you keep creating on whims. You don’t exactly laugh out loud at each other, because that would probably break your silent agreement to stay quiet, but eventually both of you feel free enough to smile with amusement when you pull off something incredibly, touchingly lame.

 

You don’t know how long you dance for. The playlist doesn’t come to a stop, but it does come to a particular track. You haven’t finished this one, not just yet. You still don’t know where it’s going, or what it’s missing; maybe some other time you’ll figure it out.

 

But soon after your mad dash to the pause button, you notice the monitor of your computer. It’s still got the viewport with Rose’s room up, and she has a visitor. How did John get there?

 

You point it out. She smiles - a quiet farewell, and a promise to return - and wakes up.

 

What is it about this place? It’s not like Sburb. It’s something else, you think, and it’s wonderful. A world away from the world, with only one obligation: to entertain and pay attention to one Rose Lalonde.

 

No small task, of course. But you’re Dave Strider. It’s more than doable.

 

-~-

 

That was the first. It was far from the last.

 

Sometimes you fell asleep and she wasn’t there, but on those occasions, you usually found some way of waking yourself up. It happened often enough, given how many of you were running around causing paradoxes, and how many of you were closing a number of messy time loops, and how many... well, there were a lot of you.

 

But it only mattered when she was there. When Rose was asleep, the night came alive with sounds. If you could ever hear distant, foreboding murmurs, in between the dances, you didn’t let yourself acknowledge them. You just hung out with Rose. You kept your pact of wordlessness between each other. Words were for pesterchum, not for dreaming. To say anything, anything at all, you thought, would break the spell. The dreams would shatter like tempered glass, into dust, into chaos - into powdery, dull, busy reality. 

 

This was your escape from the worries, and you shared it with her.

 

Sometimes, when she wasn’t there, you stayed. You ignored the hum in the back of your head and put on your headphones, and listened, edited, made fucking magic spring from your fingertips, synthesized miracles the likes of which Jesus Christ would have envied. Every now and then, you finished a song, and you surprised her. You never did finish that one stubborn mix, but you finished at least five others, each more grandiose than the last, and Rose was pleased.

 

Good enough for you.

 

-~-

 

Such a haven was not meant to last.

 

The glass that surrounded your little tower hadn’t shattered, thankfully, but it a crack. And maybe Rose would shatter it, willfully or otherwise, but you were scared. God, but you were scared. 

 

You waited for her, trying not to make ironic references to Rapunzel, and she came. 

 

Her expression was pensive, matching yours. You realised now that you weren’t invincible here. These bodies weren’t just manifestations of the self, they were bodies, they were vessels by which you genuinely lived. And they could die. Oh, how they could die.

 

You saw Jade, falling from the broken moon of Prospit, in her eyes, and you understood that you shouldn’t pretend any longer. This place was dangerous. In time, Sburb would make its way here, too, and destroy it for good. Kill you both.

 

You didn’t want it to end. So you faked a smile, finding it oddly much harder than faking a frown, turned around, and turned up the music as loud as you could.

 

Her smile was just as brittle as yours, but it was a smile, and it meant you were carrying on this disastrous charade of paradise. You and she had already bit the apple, but as long as God never found out, he couldn’t kick you out, right? As long as the truth remained unspoken, so it would remain tucked away, perhaps quietly coiling itself up for a poisonous strike - someday.

 

You danced the night away.

 

And another.

 

And some more.

 

And you realised slowly that the more that remained unspoken, the more you could lie to yourself. You had found your Eden, indeed, and in it everything that came along with so innocuous a garden. Maybe there was a creepy puppet instead of bushes and shit, but the parallel was the same. And you didn’t let yourself think about that too much. 

 

(As long as you didn’t know just how feelings-bared naked you were in that tower, then, clearly, you weren’t.)

 

There was only one night, out of those, that stood out among the rest. Where every other night was full of suppressed fear, electric air, and tense, necessary dancing, this one was different, and it was Rose’s fault entirely. 

 

She had chosen, that night, to bring her violin.

 

You raised your eyebrows at it, curious and skeptical. She clearly had something planned, but what Rose generally tended to play consisted of dark dirges and droll orchestral music. Not exactly your usual style, and certainly not something you could dance to.

 

In reply to your skepticism, she nodded towards your mix-making gear. She wanted you to put on a song, but you were hesitant. You still didn’t get her game. What was her angle? What was she trying to do, flip everything turnways? You shook her head.

 

Then she played.

 

Two notes.

 

Just a couple more, then two notes.

 

Just a couple more, then two notes.

 

A beat. A rhythm. A melody, you realised, and one she’d been practising. Suddenly, you knew exactly what she was doing - the tempo, it matched perfectly, it was a crescendo, it struck like Zillyhoo and you understood - she was completing it.

 

You ran to the mix gear, and turned on your unfinished track, just in time with her violin, and set it to record.

 

Goddamn. 

 

Lalonde was making music. You could hardly contain the feeling - between you, an undercurrent of unison, of complete understanding, of shared darkness, of obscured truth, of everything on this god-fucked-up adventure that had happened so far. You began to scratch the records, to hit the drum loops and add the harmonies where you needed them.

 

And together, you [built your world](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOkeFOkE7No).

 

-~-

 

It faded, quietly, when you were done.

 

You turned around, and she was standing right behind you. Her eyes had been on her hands, you noticed dimly, but as you had turned, they were now on your face. 

 

Rose lowered her violin slowly. Her face was too close and yours was too hot, and you saw and heard the softness when she swallowed. 

 

(Maybe, just maybe, if you weren’t still wearing your shades.)

 

She stepped back, and smirked, proud that she’d made you see the light - no pun intended.

 

You nodded slowly.

 

-~-

 

She tells you to take your shades off, and listen to that murmur.

 

You do it, but you never do it again.

 

Shortly after, there’s another change.

 

For a while, she doesn’t come, and you don’t go.

 

When you’re there alone, not telling where you’ve been, who you’ve been with, unable to speak, it feels too much like guilt.

 

As for her...

 

The night is darker than ever, the clouds thick and reaching out with wispy tendrils, suckers affixed to the ends, stretching towards you, trying to snatch you up in their grasp. You don’t dare to go outside; you don’t even consider crossing to her tower to try seeking her out. You let her sleep. You let her live.

 

You worry.

 

-~-

 

You wake up.

 

Motherfucker. 

 

You gasp for breath for a moment, not quite realising that you don’t need it. Your lungs are fine. You’re okay. You’re alive, goddamn, Strider, pull yourself together. You press one hand against your chest, a desperate measure to check. It feels like tingling, like flesh, like sinew and tissue and organs and you. 

 

You’re okay.

 

You’re okay.

 

You aren’t, but you’re okay.

 

You take just a moment to reorient yourself. Death, you think, is not something you really want to experience again. If you have to die, you’d rather something without guns, while you’re on the subject. Fucking Harley and her rifles. You’ll never blame her, of course, but the fact remains that her bullets killed you. Goddamn.

 

Scowling, you adjust the skewed tilt of your shades and whip out the closest piece of shit on your sylladex. Caledscratch, of course. You head immediately to the window. The storm outside has finally calmed, but it’s still present. For once, you don’t give a shit. There’s a rage boiling over inside you. You don’t know where it came from, but you died and now you’re here living the one life you’ve got left, time shit or not, and fuck if you’re going to let some horrorterror bullshit end it now.

 

You do an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the sill, complete with a triple flip, and soon you’re flying through the goddamn air across to that tower. You can hear the horrorterrors moaning, but they don’t have any power over you. How could they? You’re not listening.

 

At her window, you peek into the room, It startles you for a moment, seeing the perfectly replicated MEOW pattern glowing over the walls, but you don’t let it get to you. You’ve made enough mistakes in this broodfestering game as it is. Rose, ashen, pale, is asleep on her bed, and let her wake up, please, let her wake the fuck up -

 

“Rose,” you say, breaking the silence, shoving her a little. “Get the hell up. Come on. Before planet fucking Jupiter kills us both or something. We need you around. I reckon you still need to do that damn suicide mission of yours, right? So you can’t be dead yet, just get the fuck up. Do I have to alchemitize you a gogdamn alarm clock? Jegus, Rose.”

 

She rolls over a bit, fluttering her lashes, which is complete bullshit. She’s wide awake, but doesn’t want to be for some reason. Maybe you can’t blame her. There are plenty of reasons, you think to yourself, for her not to want to wake up.

 

You’d like to be a reason she’ll wake up anyway. There’s a lot of reasons for her to stay asleep, but there’s also John, and Jade, and you, and throw in the entire universe while you’re at it. There’s more to live for and more you’ve got to do before this fucked up apocalypse will leave you all alone.

 

At least she’s alive. That’s the important bit. A world without a Rose is a world without a snarky broad who’s too mature for her skirts and too smart for her imaginary psychology degree. You guess this means John successfully kissed Rose back to life. You kinda wince at the thought. John and Rose are like siblings. That kiss was practically incestuous.

 

Then again, Jade clearly had to kiss you.

 

Then again again, the irony lies in that John and Jade are actually siblings, and you and Rose, but -

 

Fuck that, train of thought, derailing, now. Goodbye. Hope the passengers won’t be missed.

 

Rose is still feigning sleep and it’s pissing you off. Grimdarkness or not, the two of you have a job to do. “Sorry for breaking the silence, but it probably doesn’t matter anymore,” you say. “Shit happened and we’re both half-dead. Get up. We need you on your feet, darlin’. You can wallow in your mistakes later; I know I have. Talking can come later. But fuck if I’m staying on this shitty planet alone.”

 

Her eyes flutter open. She stares at you.

 

“You have a nice - Texan twang there, Strider,” she muses. Jegus, if her voice isn’t even more flowery-melodic than you had imagined. 

 

You shrug.

 

“What, back to silence? Like you said. It’s broken. Our little Eden is already gone, Strider. It’s probably been broken for a while, and we merely refused to acknowledge it.”

 

Fucking psychoanalysis. You jump a bit when she calls it Eden. Sometimes, she just reads your mind, this crazy girl does.

 

“Whatever, Lalonde,” you mutter. “You alright?”

 

“Just fine.”

 

“No murderous urges?”

 

“Nothing beyond the usual.”

 

“English, not Eldritch, I hope?”

 

She doesn’t answer that one aloud: she nods. Which means she can speak both, now, if she wants to, and you refuse to shiver at the thought. You highly doubt she’ll ever use that tongue again. The knowledge itself is likely enough to sear the edges of her fragile mind.

 

“Alright. Guess Doc Strider’s gotta give you a full bill of health, then. There’s a forty dollar surcharge, of course.”

 

“Dollars or boondollars, Doctor Strider, sir?”

 

“Dollars. Unless, of course, you want to pay a bit on the side, Miss Lalonde.”

 

The banter brings back a familiar spark to her eye. “Why, Doctor Strider, you wouldn’t be suggesting something inappropriate for a professional relationship such as ours, now would you?”

 

“I assure you, ma’am, this method of treatment is fully sanctioned by every indecent Doctoring school this side of the Mason-Dixon.”

 

“You’ll have to give me some time to consider so unique an offer.”

 

“You can agree or disagree at any time, Miss Lalonde, so long as I’m paid.” 

 

You smirk; she returns it, and briefly, everything is alright.

 

“Status report?”

 

“Egbert’s at the castle still, as far as I know. Harley’s still hatching frogs. But plan scratch is a go.”

 

Rose nods, thinking. “And the tumor?”

 

“It’s up to us.”

 

“So really, nothing has changed.”

 

“Except we’re on a time limit,” you remark. She raises an eyebrow, and you explain, “Bec sent Prospit crashing to the ground. We’ve only got a matter of, well, time to get the Tumor and destroy the Green Sun, if that’s what we want to do, because if we take too long, Derse is next.”

 

“That does throw a hitch in things,” Rose says, “but it’s a small one. No problem.”

 

“Then let’s get to work,” you say. You stretch a hand out, and she takes it, heaving herself out of bed.

 

-~-

 

You find, when you fall asleep, that strange things happen. You still vaguely remember something about dreambubbles and a troll-witch outfitted in the brightest red, but maybe that was just a dream-dream, and not actually you. It’s very vague. Other times, however, there’s no bubble to catch your fall. The horrorterrors won’t win you over like they did Rose, but they can still torment you from beyond the veil with their whispers. 

 

When Rose falls asleep, she has a degree of control over the dreambubbles that far surpasses yours. You learn to sleep only when she does. She guides you into her dreams, evoking within you happy memories. Of course, she uses the opportunities to brutally psychoanalyse you, but you could hardly expect her to pass up such a perfect opportunity. An explored part of your psyche is a small price to pay for safety from the throes of the monsters beyond.

 

With every dreambubble, you learn and begin to understand, to navigate. You remember more and more. But it can’t last.

 

Each of you is simply waiting for the Tumor, for the destiny that will send you to your final death. 

 

She wants to be the sacrifice. You refuse to let her. What have you done, this game? Shit-all, really. You collected a fuckton of frogs, that was useful. You made ridiculous money of the stocks, only to give all of it to a goddamn troll. You slashed a few monsters. Your alternate self came back in time to save John’s life, and okay, that was pretty heroic, but it still wasn’t you.

 

You haven’t done a single thing in this game, not really. You’re useless. You already knew this, but now it’s been underlined, three times, in thick black Ink of Squid Pro Quo. If you can make one contribution to let everybody else live, you well. Rose shouldn’t have to die. She’s got her snark to live for, and that one troll, Kanaya, who keeps stalking her. She’ll be okay. Maybe after Sburb, she can even live.

 

You’re not so certain about yourself.

 

-~-

 

You receive the wallet. Inside, the tumor.

 

A chain, sliced. A moon, abandoned.

 

For a paradise lost, a chance obtained.

 

You are about to leave. It is your time. Your moment.

 

Something hits your head in a manner all too familiar, and you black out.

 

You wake. She has left.

 

You scream, and fly beyond the rim.

 

-~-

 

You’re probably dead.

 

Actually, at this point, you’re about 90% certain of your inevitable deadness. You don’t know or remember if it was the dark gods or the explosion of the Tumor that got you, but you’re really, most sincerely dead. Kind of a relief. At least you didn’t get shot like last time. Or have a house fall on you. Or a meteor. There are shitty ways to die, but an explosion you can’t even remember isn’t too bad.

 

Looking around, you become certain you’re dead. This is a memory, you realize. Rose is dancing, and you’re at the mix station, queueing up songs. It was one of those first few nights, you recall, when there wasn’t even a deep truth for the two of you to bury. 

 

God, it’s the best damn night you’ve ever seen.

 

You find your hands coming to a stop as you stare directly at Rose. It takes her even longer than it does you to let loose, but she does, she goes all out. Her eyes are closed as she moves around with abandon, unwitnessed by any eyes except your own.

 

(You’re dead. You’re the dreaming dead. There’s nothing left to save. Or to lose.)

 

Memories keep returning to you. Night after night, worries, thoughts, things you kept close, things you didn’t say, things you wanted to, things that were cast into space without a chance, things that you tucked away behind your shades, where nobody could get at you.

 

You take your hands out of your pockets, and softly, you slip those shades off. The world lightens. A bit.

 

Reaching over, you lower the volume a bit. It’s small, but it’s enough to catch Rose’s ever-attentive notice. She freezes in place, and her eyes open, and widen, plainly shocked to catch yours.

 

“Sup,” you say.

 

“We’re dead,” says Rose. 

 

“Blunt.”

 

“But true.”

 

A silence falls between you, not as a blanket, but as a simple lack of anything else to say.

 

“Is this later?” she asks. “Our obligation to Sburb is gone. Can we now deal with the demons that plague us so?”

 

“Not really feeling like a heart-to-heart right now,” you mutter. 

 

She nods shortly, and lowers her head, closing her eyes. Waiting, and you’re not sure...

 

You’re not sure, but you get out of your chair. Is it weird that though dead, your heart’s still beating? Is it weird that it’s quickening; is it weird that with your sunglasses off you can feel, and the electricity that’s always in the air in this tower is - well, it’s not the tower, you know that now. It’s just the two of you. It’s dangerous and sparkling, and you dare not acknowledge it aloud.

 

You are so, so tired.

 

You stand just a bit too close, and put a hand under her chin, as if you’re about to tilt her head up, and maybe kiss her. But you don’t. You lean your forehead against hers, and sigh softly. She smells like lavender. Terezi would probably have something clever to say about that, but all you know is that lavender, as smells go, is not half bad.

 

She throws her arms around your neck and pulls you in close, pressing her body directly against yours. You would call it a hug, but it’s more desperate than that; she’s clinging to you and you’re clinging back. She mumbles something intelligible and starts to press small kisses against your collarbone; maybe for once in your goddamn life you think you know where this is going.

 

Doctor Strider and his magical treatment are here to collect. (And be treated, and be - something else.)

 

You press a kiss to her forehead; she starts kissing your neck everywhere she can, her hands wandering about as much as yours are. She wants to take your shirt off, you can tell. This is the stupidest goddamn fucking thing you have ever done, but hell, you both need it. Anything else doesn’t matter right now. You’re dead. Worries can wait. In your little bubble, you’re safe, but you feel broken from the inside, not the outside. You both need to mend, in whatever fucked up way you can.

 

She pulls the shirt over your head; the moment it’s off you’re already nibbling at her ear and she’s clawing at your chest, sorta. Description is failing you. “Catharsis,” she whispers gently. Her shirt is off and neither of you will kiss each other on the lips; it’s too much, it’s not yet. For the moment you just revel in the warmth and the hum of her body, the rhythm to which you both move, the knowledge that she is the one person you knows you inside out and reads your mind and knows how you feel, and that you’re the only one who can know what she needs in turn. 

 

You’re dead, and you’re the most alive you’ve ever felt.

 

Eventually you do make it to a bed, and for the briefest moment, you release your iron grip around her, letting her break away for just a moment, letting both of you find a spare second just to breathe.

 

(Part of you loves the unique purple in her eyes, as rare as yours; part of you whispers that if she were dead if you were dead, your eyes would each be blank and white, not alive with color, but you ignore it for now.)

 

If you kiss her, properly, you think, you acknowledge everything. You are thirteen, but probably fourteen, maybe fifteen, maybe sixty-three, fuck, you don’t know, and you are about to have stupid, dead dream sex with your sister by blood, and you need it, and moreover, you need her - not just for this, but maybe in your life, at your side, supporting you whenever you need it, and fuck, you think after this stupid game, you’re going to need it a lot. She hides it better, but so will she.

 

Together, possibly you can both keep the world from realizing that your Eden has fallen, and the innocence of your minds brutally ripped away along with it.

 

She closes the gap first. Her lips are soft. She wastes no time in introducing her tongue to the situation, and you kiss back, you oblige, and it’s hasty and bad, but catharsis, catharsis, the build-up of far too much finally releasing itself through floodgates torn apart.

 

Her fingernails dig slightly into your hips, where she grasps the hem of your pants. You let her slip them off, with a quiet sigh.

 

-~-

 

When you wake up, you had never gone to sleep.

 

You don’t know where you are.

 

There’s a knock at your door. Some short kid with grey skin and nubby little candy-corn horns grumbles at you in a language you don’t entirely speak. Doesn’t stop you from knowing exactly who he is.

 

Dazed, you find yourself led through an abandoned laboratory, of sorts. There’s graffiti on some of the walls, in the form of dried, colorful paint, with a number of shitty big-nosed smiley faces and words that don’t make sense.

 

You reach what seems to be a central room, with a bunch of computers, a few of them blown up from the charring marks.

 

There’s a troll there, sitting with a puppet at his side, scowling. He seems to be blind.

 

Shortly, more appear. A troll with pointy horns and a wicked-sharp smile cackles when she sees you, and leads John into the room. John beams at you, but because the trolls are all watching the transportalizer in the center of the room, you guess you should probably wait to talk to him. 

 

A troll with a dopey smile and ruined facial make-up appears along with Jade, who is clearly very much weirded out by him. Don’t blame her. Must be the juggalo dude.

 

Finally, a troll dressed in a graceful red dress appears, and Rose at her side. Rose glances around the room, noting John, then Jade, and finally meeting your eyes. You tip her a slow, knowing nod, and she ever so subtly returns it.

 

The blind troll runs a program. Whenever anybody says anything, it repeats a translated version of the words in a robotic voice. The trolls all introduce themselves.

 

Eventually you all start to mingle. But you and Rose seek each other out first.

 

You grasp her hand, lightly, and she tightens the hold. Reaffirmation - nothing, you swear to god, nothing is going to change. You are who and what you are, and even if it’s only when the doors are locked and you create your own mimicry of solitude, alone, you are together. You are free.

 

She smiles your way, and you smile back.

 

Terezi licks you both.


End file.
